


Love is Not All

by Eithe



Category: Seven Kingdoms: The Princess Problem (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 13:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13812168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eithe/pseuds/Eithe
Summary: The inadvertent courtship of introverts.Written for 7KPP Week 2018.





	1. Week One

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 1: Heart

Valeriya does not expect to be surprised in the course of the introductions, but Duke Lyon makes her smile; a real one, not the polite social mask. She surprises him into laughing, and she, in turn… smiles. And means it.

It’s an odd thing, finding herself pleased that someone is so exactly themselves. She doesn’t, as a rule, like people very much. They’re useful, or necessary, or they make life less terrible because they radiate goodness like a fire radiates heat, but they are almost invariably exhausting.

The duke is quiet, and doesn’t trouble himself to hide that he apparently has even less use for most people than she does on her worst day, but for all that, there’s something about him that she genuinely likes. They talk about history; he looks surprised to find her well-informed, but enters into the conversation willingly enough and entirely disproves his own claims of being a disagreeable conversationalist. He unbends significantly, given a subject he’s interested in, but even in the midst of an animated conversation, she still feels peculiarly peaceful in a way that’s almost better than being alone. She feels like she could spend hours in his company and feel energized for it.

It’s bizarre.

She wants to find out why, but propriety demands she continue making the rounds. Satisfying her curiosity will have to wait.

She smiles at him again, before she takes her leave, and tells him,

“I don’t know what you were talking about; I had a lovely time conversing with you.”

The strange thing is, she actually means all of it.

–

She has invitations aplenty, and her own affairs to manage, and yet she still excavates a sliver of spare time to seek out Duke Lyon. She finds him tucked away in a back corner of the library; not hiding, per se, but clearly disinclined to socialize. The piles of books surrounding him suggest he has better things to do with his time, and she finds herself smiling again, just a little.

It's not as if she doesn't understand the impulse.

She settles at the table, even though he has certainly not made her welcome - or, as yet, noticed her presence. This is a public space, though, and she very much doubts the librarians will allow him to take his entire hoard of books back to his room. That will probably deter him from simply fleeing, for all he has already acquired a reputation for vanishing into the ether whenever he senses a young lady approaching him. So they’ll have a chance for conversation, however little interest he may have in it.

She feels a bit like she’s ambushing him, but everyone knows she doesn’t experience guilt or remorse when going after something she wants; she’s sure he won’t expect mercy on that front.

"Duke Lyon," she greets. "Good evening."

She can't entirely resist teasing, because she's been here for nearly three minutes, but he still doesn't flee. 

She actually gets a blush out of him, which is so endearing she nearly laughs. She doesn't feel anything akin to mockery, just delight, but she swallows it down all the same. No one ascribes pure motives to anything she does, and she certainly doesn't wish to scare him off now.

-

“What were you reading,” she asks, “before I so cruelly interrupted?”

He still looks like he’s not sure why she’s here, but she really was just… seeking him out, to spend time with him. Which is idiotic - she very clearly heard him state an absolute disinclination to marry for politics (or even to have come to the Summit at all), and rumor already says he’s equally uninterested in forming diplomatic ties, or politicking.

He doesn’t strike her as the sort of person who says anything other than exactly what he thinks, so he can’t be a prospective match and he won’t be a useful contact.

And yet, here she is, all the same.

“The Historian Kellem Ives’s philosophical treatise on the ethical impetus upon those with the power to act upon significant events to intervene versus maintain neutrality to allow for unbiased documentation in terms of the impact on perdurable public good.”

She blinks, but that - makes perfect sense, actually. Maybe he’s more inclined to take an active hand than she’d thought. He’s considering it, at any rate, or there’d be little point to reading such a treatise.

“Does he have anything interesting to say on the subject? I can think of few people for whom such considerations would be more relevant than to delegates at the Summit.”

“It is an interesting discussion, but I’m uncertain as to its pertinancy in this case. It seems to me more of a treatise on regret, having made a decision he tries to justify living with.”

“Ah. And it is too soon in our own sagas for the actors to be burdened with an excess of regret.” For most of them, anyway. “Still, it seems unlikely that you should coincidentally be reading something so potentially applicable to our present situation. Do you have concerns about your own role here?”

“It isn’t coincidental at all. Unedited first edition copies of Historian Ives’s work are almost impossible to find, even at the Jiyel Royal Archives.”

He hasn’t quite answered her question, but that’s a kind of answer in and of itself. For the rest - she laughs.

“I see; you are more interested in taking advantage of the Isle library than your position as a potential agent of change.”

“I… I confess, I haven’t become of one mind on the matter. And you, Lady Valeriya?”

She’s been told that when she smiles like this, she looks like a cobra spreading its hood; that she is a venomous serpent, and wearing this smile, she looks it. Duke Lyon does not seem alarmed or intimidated in the least, and she likes him all the better for it.

“I am usually a creature of many minds, thank you for asking.”

Not alarmed at all; he looks impatient. It’s delightful. No one with sense has been impatient with her in years.

“No, what are your thoughts on this matter?”

She hums. That’s a good question, really; self-interest is all well and good, of course, but that’s not why any of them are here - not really. Even those who consider themselves entirely self-interested are here in the broadest historical sense because Princess Katyia brought seven nations to the table in pursuit of peace.

This is a novel situation, though; no one’s asked her to debate ethics in…

Ever? Possibly ever.

“Well,” she says slowly, “I think the idea of maintaining historical neutrality makes a poor substitute for creating history you can be proud to own, instead.” She warms to the subject and her hands get involved. “Accurate accounts are all well and good, that future generations might learn from them, but they do nothing to address the ills of those suffering in the present. Present harm must take precedence over a hypothetical future in which an unbiased account of said harm could potentially be of use.”

“You speak so passionately on the subject, I can almost forget your argument is essentially flawed.”

She thinks she might have been less shocked if he’d slapped her, and she’s grinning with too many teeth and leaning forward in excitement as her pulse ticks up. Why does anyone say Jiyelians are cold and boring to talk to? This is better than piquet.

“How so?”

“We do not have the power to predict or control the ripples and after-effects of our decisions. How can we in good conscience play with hypothetical fire, knowing full well that not only can we be burned by it, but so too can anyone who is around us, or even many innocents we will never see or meet?”

Ah. He IS worried about his role here - and it’s reasonable for him to be so, given the weight given to the word of a Duke. If he does exert the power he has, it will be considerable, and he’s plainly unused to the application of it. But the sort of people who ought to worry about how their actions will affect others are always those least likely to do so; the ones who cause the most collateral damage so often simply don’t care who they hurt.

She settles back into her seat, studying him.

If he’s inclined to act, she thinks Duke Lyon will do it for the right reasons - and do it with the care and good sense to minimize consequences, however uncomfortable he is with politics.

“To be human is to err, but it is only in doing nothing that we could truly fail. When our fear wins, we leave the field clear for those who do not care what damage they wreak. To be wise enough to recognize the weight of the responsibility, compassionate enough to care what results, and brave enough to try, regardless - that is what we should all aspire to. We owe our best to the people who are depending on us, but no one can reasonably demand that we be more - or less - than human in the attempt.”

There’s a turn of something almost distressed around his mouth, at that.

“How can you speak of failure so lightly?”

Oh, she doesn’t. Failure is terrifying, and she has spent her life walking on the narrowest rail above it and praying her balance holds. She is here for the sake of her own ambition, true, but -

Not only that. No one will ever believe her, but she is here for more than that.

“Because the worst failure of all is the failure to try. History looks kindly on those who have tried to do the right thing for the greater good. They do not always succeed, and sometimes their success comes at great cost, but even in their failures they give us something to aspire to. We all wish to believe that no matter how dark things may get, how selfish or cruel those around us may be, some people will always be brave and good and just.”

It may be a lie, but it is a beautiful one; she retreated into stories and history to hide from her marriage for a reason.

She concludes,

“So even the failures inspire and teach the future, like your historian’s accounts - but they don’t need some mythical ideal of neutrality to do it.”

–

Getting to know the duke - let alone winning his trust - seems like it might be one of the most difficult things she could choose to do with her time on Vail Isle. Why that should sound so wildly appealing, she does not know.


	2. Week One, Moonday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first morning.

Valeriya hears footsteps outside her door and shoots awake, tensing. Even as she opens her eyes, though, she registers that the slant of light through the windows is different. New.

She’s alone, and comfortable - and the footsteps pass by her door.

She starfishes back onto the warm, rumpled sheets and grins up at the canopy of her bed.

She is on Vail Isle, at the Summit.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed and has gotten her dressing gown on when the maids come in.

The redhead - Ria, she corrects herself - smiles at her.

“You’re awake! Did you sleep well, my lady?”

Well, not precisely - she stayed up late reading, because she’s never been able to stop herself when there’s an interesting book to hand. Besides, a review of Summit history cannot but be a good idea. And then she tried to soothe one of her neighbors out of having hysterics, because she may not like people, but no one deserves to be ignored when they’re alone and frightened. But…

“Yes,” she says. “Very well, thank you, Ria.”

It’s not true, but it’s also not entirely perjuring herself. She has slept so much worse, and she woke up warm and safe and victorious. Ria pinks up in pleasure - or possibly she’s just surprised that someone with Valeriya’s reputation bothers learning people’s names. The rumors make her sound like a self-centered monster even to people of comparable rank, and being pleasant during her initial introduction won’t have been enough to alleviate their concerns, she’s sure.

Well, they’re stuck with each other for seven weeks; she’ll continue being as un-tiger-like as possible and perhaps the staff will eventually stop expecting her to roar or bite them.

In short order, she’s scrubbed and pressed, and Ria sets herself to putting Valeriya’s hair in order while Sayra makes the most subtly, restrainedly pained faces Valeriya has ever seen over the state of her wardrobe.

She probably doesn’t realize Valeriya is watching in the mirror, because she’s certainly not saying anything aloud, but Valeriya has a great deal of practice watching without being noticed.

It’s highly amusing, actually; Sayra clearly doesn’t feel comfortable actually voicing her distress, but every time she looks at something with dated silhouette or an unfashionable waistline or notices one of the careful mends, she has a fraction of a second where she looks completely appalled, and inbetween she still looks disapproving. Valeriya finds this peculiarly comforting, actually, especially given the looks are entirely directed towards her wardrobe; no comparable looks have thus far been directed towards Valeriya’s person.

Valeriya isn’t sure where Sayra was brought into service, but it can’t have been on the Isle - she clearly has better taste than most of the lady’s maids at court in Revaire. 

And probably half the ladies, if it should come to that.

It takes only a little gentle nudging to get Ria to maintain a stream of cheerful chatter, which spares Valeriya from needing to do any talking of her own outside of the occasional question to nudge things back into motion and gently direct the flow. It doubles as information-gathering, since - as she learns - Ria has lived on the Isle for years and consequently knows the castle and its usual inhabitants very well. Sayra resists being drawn into conversation, herself, and Valeriya lets it go after only two attempts to loop her in; it’s reassuring, really, that one of her assigned maids is so quiet.

No doubt Sayra will get her duties done and go as soon as she’s able, which means Valeriya can expect more time alone to recharge in between social engagements. Valeriya will desperately need time to herself if she’s going to survive seven weeks of the social gauntlet.

As soon as they’ve settled her overskirts and stepped back, Jasper glides in carrying a tray of breakfast. The precision with which this is orchestrated is frankly impressive; breakfast is still steaming, even though the kitchens are in an entirely separate part of the castle, and he’s come precisely at the moment her morning toilette was complete.

He’s rather uncanny, really. She’ll decide whether that alarms her or not once she’s had a chance to see if he was sincere about having her best interests in mind. Normally she would find the very notion of trusting strangers laughable, but that the Summit has worked so well for so long suggests that the Isle is genuine in its commitment to neutrality, at least in the abstract.

“It is best you eat up, my lady. I expect it will be a trying day, and you will have need of all the fortification you can muster.”

She lets the corners of her mouth tick up in a wry smile, because yes, it will indeed be trying.

Campaigning to get here was hard. Being here will be harder.

At least the grounds, from what she glimpsed on her way up from the ship, are lovely; it’s usually possible to lose oneself in gardens and steal whole hours for the restorative magic of a little quiet time.

She looks at the spread of food, and it’s really remarkable; the Isle cooks are masters of their craft. She has a bite of the sauteed mushrooms and her eyes nearly roll back in her head.

How is this so good? What do they put in these? Butter, obviously, among other things, but there’s obviously some secret to it and she absolutely must learn what it is before she leaves.

She looks up and realizes that Ria is looking at her heavily-laden plate rather longingly. Oh, that’s right - the Vail Isle servants aren’t supposed to eat until after the delegates have broken their own fast, even though the servants must be up and ready to get their assigned delegates through their morning routines before half of those ‘worthy’ personages are even likely to have gotten out of bed.

She looks down at the splendid spread again and realizes - she could eat it all, probably, but she would pop her stays if she managed it. There’s only enough for two people to have a proper, filling breakfast, but…

She catches all of their eyes with one quick sweep around the room and smiles, gesturing at the tray.

“Would any of you care to join me? The cooks are clearly in fine form this morning, but I fear I am not equal to conquering their efforts alone.”

Jasper bows.

“I thank you for the offer, my lady, but I must decline.”

He looks like he might have appreciated the offer, all the same. But he definitely knew he was bringing her more than enough food.

Ria hovers next to the chair opposite Valeriya’s own, and she gives her the smile and ‘sit, sit’ gesture she’d use on any guest she was trying to set at ease. She immediately, to Valeriya’s amusement, begins loading up another plate - but she glances at Valeriya before she touches any of the dishes, as though she’s expecting her to spring up and snatch them away.

She keeps her smile gentle and assures Ria,

“I couldn’t possibly eat it all, and it would be such a dreadful waste to send anything back uneaten; you’re doing me a favor, I promise you.”

That seems to assuage most of her fears, at any rate.

Sayra looks more suspicious and selects a single pastry, one she can easily eat without sitting or making up a plate of her own.

Ah, well; not everyone warms up to new people quickly. Valeriya can understand that; she’s been told she’s about as warm and approachable as an iceberg when she’s not making an effort to be otherwise.

She revises her estimation of Jasper’s butlery magic upwards, again; this was precisely the correct amount of food for all of them, given Sayra’s selection. She glances sidelong and catches his eye with a tiny, grateful smile. She approves - and she appreciates this opportunity to set her maids at ease. She’s good at being charming, but she’s unaccustomed to being nice. 

There’s been little call for it in the last few years.

Too, given her own probable exhaustion when she does retreat to her rooms at the end of the day, it’s unlikely she’ll always be the equal of performing for her maids. This, though? This makes her a person they’ve broken bread with, and someone who tries to be kind, and they’ll be much more likely to forgive her for those inevitable times when she is instead quiet and exhausted and grumpy.

In spite of the pastries being delectably flaky, Jasper somehow manages to vanish every last crumb practically as soon as they’re finished with the meal.

Definitely uncanny, but a profoundly useful ally to have.

And then Jasper tells her, even more serious than seems to be his usual wont, that it will soon be her turn to visit the Matchmaker, as if he expects her to quail in fear.

Hah.

There may have never been a delegate with so much practice being harshly judged; she’s not going to be upset by hearing a litany of her faults to her face. For a novelty, some of them might even be valid criticisms.

“I understand it’s very important that I impress her,” Valeriya assures him.

If she fails in this first meeting, well, there will be further opportunities in the weeks to come as long as she isn’t summarily evicted from the Isle. Besides, actual flaws are things she can address; the imagined wrongs often assigned to her by strangers, though? More difficult to ameliorate.


	3. Week One, Starday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valeriya dislikes public speaking.

Valeriya’s fingers ache from being held still; she wants to knot them together until she’s white-knuckled and the pressure gives her a sensation to focus on, but she can’t afford such a visible display of nerves. It’s not that she’s afraid of public speaking, exactly - though she is. Talking to people one-on-one or in small groups is bad enough, but this?

She had nightmares, once, when she was younger and much more naive, that started like this. She has better things to inspire her dreaming terrors, now, but this still frightens her.

More than that, though, she knows what her countrymen say of her, and they’ve had a whole week to begin whispering it to others. Of those of her fellow delegates she has become properly acquainted with, she’s reasonably certain she’s displayed sufficiently charm to at least persuade them to reserve judgment. But there are dozens of delegates, and she has managed a personal connection to only a handful.

Well, perhaps a double handful - she has been exerting herself. It has been exhausting, and they’re scarcely a week in.

Then the forty-first introduction is over, and it’s her turn.

She walks to the front of the room and it feels awkward. She can’t remember how she normally walks. Is she hurrying too fast? Moving too slow? Time doesn’t seem to be flowing in its usual fashion, and the whisper of her skirts is deafening in the too-silent room.

Once she reaches the podium, she lets her eyes go soft-focused and skim over the crowd rather than fixing on a particular face; if she can’t see specific features, it’s much easier to keep herself from fretting over whether this quirk of the brow is judgmental, whether that wrinkled nose is disgust or merely a threatening sneeze.

Once she’s begun to speak, she does let her eyes settle, briefly, on familiar faces with encouraging expressions. Princess Penelope beams, and her brother offers a serene smile. Princess Anaele’s response to eye contact is so exuberant that Valeriya temporarily loses all of her nerves because she is fighting not to laugh. Prince Zarad’s expression shades impish, but his mirth doesn’t appear to be at her expense. Princess Cordelia is serene but alert, and her cousin grins encouragingly.

Duke Lyon’s expression - and he is easy to find in the crowd, as he’s a full head taller than his neighbors - is perhaps the most soothing; he looks attentive, and not bored at all. She keeps coming back to him, because his own steady calm seems to be catching even at this distance.

She wonders if anyone has ever told him so, and if he would be pleased to hear it.

She doesn’t want to run on, but she does segue from her particulars into one quick anecdote, peppered with humor; she needs these people to see her as human, because otherwise she will only be what rumor paints her as, and rumor is decidedly unkind. The jokes win a respectable degree of laughter from the whole room, and her other efforts earn indulgent smiles even from a few of the less friendly faces.

It seems a good note to end on.

“Oh, don’t sit down yet, Lady Valeriya.”

She might have expected this, really; even the briefest acquaintance has made it abundantly clear that Lady Avalie enjoys catching people wrong-footed and making them dance before they can catch their balance again. Lady Avalie’s voice carries without seeming to be raised at all - it’s a good trick.

Valeriya would be far more admiring if it weren’t being used against her, but it is nonetheless impressive.

“You haven’t yet told us what you are hoping to achieve at the Summit.”

Hah. As if she hasn’t heard; Valeriya is the Viper of Namaire. She wants everything, and will stop at nothing to get it.

She keeps her smile nailed in place, and tells the truth, because no one will believe it:

“In these trying times, I hope to follow in Princess Katyia’s footsteps.”

She cuts her eyes over the crowd again, waiting for another question, or for someone to call her a liar to her face.

No one speaks, and she walks back to her seat deliberately looking past the crowd, with her chin angled up and her mouth full of iron.


	4. Week Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Day 4, Nostalgia.

Lyon asks why she wanted to talk to him, like seeking out a gentleman’s company isn’t the clearest way a lady has of expressing interest in him.

Valeriya studies him out of the corner of her eye, as they walk towards the gazebo, and wonders if she’s about to make a very great fool of herself. From anyone else, she would take that question as a gentle rebuff and respect it, but…

Lyon doesn’t play games like that. It’s one of the things she’s come to like about him - like very much. She can always be certain where she stands, rather than needing to make educated guesses about the terrain, because he’s invariably honest with her. He appreciates (she’d say ‘demands,’ but that has unfortunate connotations in her mind) honesty in return.

She can safely offer it, at least:

“Because you’re interesting to talk to. You’re smart, and a good person. I… like spending time with you.”

She just likes him, really. To a humiliating, terrifying degree.

They ascend the short steps up to the gazebo proper, and she thinks -

He’s come to the events she’s hosted and accepted this more private invitation as well, so at least some of this… fondness, that’s an acceptable word. Some of the fondness must be mutual. She hasn’t received much positive evidence to that her regard is matched in it’s degree, but she can’t imagine he’s ever been shy in telling people he thinks they’re not worth his time if those are his true feelings.

If he didn’t like her, she’d know it.

But she can’t be certain whether he does feel… something comparable to (reciprocal to) her own feelings. Can’t know unless she asks.

And she’s not going to, because the idea of leaving herself that exposed - to ridicule, yes, but also to genuine pain - is terrifying..

He’s silent for a long moment, but it doesn’t worry her the way silences in company often do. She actually feels comfortable enough to tease,

“Come now, you’re a scientist; you can’t condemn conversations with the aim of getting to know one another better without experiential data. Here, I’ll go first: Ask me anything you want to know - but it can’t be something you would find in a book.”

“…Alright.”

His face is never wildly expressive, but it seems warm and open, or at least receptive, which is why the bottom falls out of her stomach like she’s missed a stair when he says,

“Most people think you killed your husband.”

She swallows, hard. He doesn’t sound like most people who say that, but long experience tells her it doesn’t matter how it’s phrased. It’s always, always, an attack.

Most people think she killed her husband - and they’re almost right.

She almost did. She’s young even now; two years into widowhood, she is still not yet twenty. She was a child when she was married, and she was terrified.

She looks down.

“I know.”

She’ll tell the truth, but he won’t believe her. No one else did.

Why would they? She had a plan for how to do it, a plan that would have worked, and sometimes that evil, comforting certainty seemed like the only thing keeping her sane. Another year, and she likely would have done it.

“I didn’t. For the record.”

She didn’t, but she could have. She didn’t, but she thought about it so often that sometimes she was confused to see the man alive across the breakfast table. She didn’t, but just barely.

Most people think she killed her husband because she wanted to.

“… You aren’t a bad person,” Duke Lyon says, and she tries to work out how to keep the sudden surge of feeling from translating directly into copious tears and, consequently, A Scene. She doesn’t want to traumatize him; he might never say such a lovely thing again if she starts crying.

She hates crying. It’s idiotic; it upsets people, if they’re worth knowing, and if they’re not, it just tells them where to aim.

He’s looking at her and he has to see the shine in her eyes but all he says, almost gentle, is,

“I believe you.”

–

“I won’t say Duke Lyon said anything about you,” the Matchmaker tells her, “because that would be a lie.”

Valeriya isn’t safe here, and she knows it, so it’s easy to breathe through that sharp pain, exhale out and hold herself together.

He stated a disinclination to marry, and made her no promises yesterday. And she did say love had nothing to do with political alliances. It doesn’t; for the two to coincide would be a miracle, and what has she ever done to deserve one? Miracles ought to come naturally to people like Princess Penelope, good and fresh and hopeful.

Or, unnaturally, to people like Lady Avalie, who can no doubt engineer them from whatever happens to be available.

The Matchmaker continues,

“But then, he barely said two words about anything, so I wouldn’t put much stock in that.”

She blinks, but - she’s tentatively willing to call that encouragement. And after all, if the Matchmaker doesn’t want anyone crying at her - and she quite clearly said she has no patience whatsoever for tears - then surely she doesn’t deliberately set out to raise false hopes or break hearts.

Not that it would have broken Valeriya’s heart. She’s not willing to admit that much, even to herself.

“Truly? I’ve never found him so reticent as that.”

The Matchmaker barks out a laugh, as if she’s just told a joke.

“That does not surprise me in the least, but you aren’t stupid enough to suppose he’s like that with everyone. He may have barely spoken the whole time he was here, but when I suggested that you would make someone else a charming partner, his glare told me everything I needed to know. I wouldn’t have thought he had the least interest in the Summit or anyone here, but he communicated quite clearly that he is, at the very least, interested in you.”

Keen green eyes study her.

“You have quite a decision to make, young lady.”

“Momentous, perhaps,” she agrees, “but not difficult.”

It’s interesting; her first marriage was the same sort of choice, important but easy. In that case, though, the choosing felt like laying her head on the block and waiting for the axe to fall. This feels like the inverse of that; like a stay of execution, rising to her feet when she thought she’d never do so again.

The Matchmaker says, “ah.”

Valeriya understands, suddenly, what people must mean about her own smile being unnervingly in the vein of a threat display; the Matchmaker looks like she smells blood. “You’ve reached an accord already, then.”

That would be overstating it. They spoke, but there was nothing binding in the exchange.

But if he expressed enough interest to be an option, then her own choice is easily made.

The Matchmaker continues to look predatorily intent.

“So: The elusive genius duke, hm? I’m to suppose you really have feelings for him?”

Everyone knew she didn’t love her first husband; she never tried to pretend. She is a fine actress, a skilled liar, but a lie needs to be built around a grain of truth, and a performance needs to be plausible. She never could have maintained such a facade. People used to ask that, just to be rude. So by all rights, she ought to be used to it, but she still feels her face do something exceedingly unpolitic for a half a heartbeat before she wrangles it back under control.

Let that be a lesson to her, she supposes. She’ll need to work on her masks. These feelings are new, and as such, she’s not accustomed to hiding them. Feeling this intensely is new, too, and makes everything else so much harder to hide.

Because, yes. She does ‘have feelings’ for him.

The Matchmaker laughs again.

“Already so alike, the pair of you. That was a very speaking glare. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. Now get out, I have a dozen more of you fool children to sort before dinner.”

–

“Each Summit, I find a few examples proving that love is possible between all types of people, in all circumstances, and that not even being highborn is enough to completely murder your heart. It is these few couples that keep alive what little faith in humanity I still have.”

Valeriya hopes that, should she survive to grow old, she manages to attain even a fraction of the Matchmaker’s complete indifference to other people’s opinions; the woman is perfectly comfortable expressing her absolute disdain for something like three quarters of the room, even when it’s full of royals and nobles and notables from all seven nations.

Something else to aspire to, in addition to being a better person. Although - possibly the two are mutually exclusive.

The matches are announced, one after another, a list of names she recognizes but no one she truly knows. But finally, the Matchmaker looks at her and, just perceptibly, raises the goblet she’s holding in acknowledgement.

“Lastly, Lady Valeriya and Duke Lyon.”

There is a round of toasting, and then a roar of conversation, and then Prince Jarrod laying violent hands upon her in a way that is distressingly familiar and leaves her with the usual clench of reflexive terror in her guts and the cold, comfortable certainty that she could kill the man hurting her, if she had to. Not in the immediate and decisive way Princess Ana could, but poison is a great equalizer.

But she’s not going to be that frightened girl anymore; she’s committed to being a woman worthy of the man she’s been matched with. So she uses words, instead.

They even work; Prince Jarrod lets her go.

–

It takes a surprisingly long time to extricate herself from other conversations. Why are so many people seeking her out, sad-eyed and wistful, as though she were a prize and not a poison? She can feel less familiar eyes on her, too, not just those she knows; strangers stare, expectant, entitled, profoundly irritating. It makes her skin prickle and itch between her shoulder blades as she turns her back on the assembled crowd and heads for her duke, instead.

Lyon is frowning in a corner, having maximized his distance from everyone else, continuing in his habit of being accidentally perfect by thus providing her with a ready-made excuse to pull herself away, too.

Even frowning like that, he makes her smile just by existing. He does look very much like a wet cat at the moment, though; anyone could be forgiven for supposing he was displeased with the match. If that were really the case, though, it wouldn’t have happened at all.

“On a scale from ‘one’ to ‘the library is on fire,’ how much do you want to run out of this room right now?”

His scowl deepens, and she giggles. The sound is alien and gentle and too-fond and she’d feel naked for whatever her face is doing except that since her intended is ensconced in the corner, she’s faced entirely away from the room. He’s the only one who really sees her, and that’s as safe as being unseen.

“Are you regretting whatever it is you said - no, forgive me, the Matchmaker said you didn’t say anything. Are you regretting whatever you didn’t say that got you stuck with me?”

She wouldn’t say it if she thought he might agree. It’s bizarre and heady and liberating to be able to say something self-deprecating secure in the bone-deep knowledge that it simply isn’t true, and it won’t be used to hurt her.

He’s scowling, and she keeps smiling because he isn’t scowling at her. Not really.

“You’ll be amused to know that the Matchmaker thinks we’re very much alike. Apparently we have the same glare when people ask uncomfortable questions related to feelings. I’m afraid I’m not yet up to duplicating that fearsome frown you’re wearing at the moment, however.”

He looks uncomfortable, and so she says again, more gently,

“Do you hate it?”

“Hating to be… a spectacle is not the same thing as…”

“Hating me?”

“I… don’t regret it. I would have regretted it much more if it were someone else’s name being matched with yours.”

He has a talent, somehow, for saying precisely the thing that will fill her heart up to overflowing. It feels like it must be growing, increasing its capacity, because just a week ago it was dehydrated down to the size of a walnut, small enough to keep clenched in a fist, and now it is full, full, full.

He believed her. He chose her.

He leaves quickly, after that, escaping the crush of people, but he leaves her smiling and feeling entirely equal to weathering both their shares of the crowd’s congratulatory fervor with equanimity and something approaching good cheer. She’s feeling so optimistic tonight that she’s willing to believe a full quarter of the proffered congratulations may even be sincere.

–

She does, eventually, make her own escape. All the romance in the air ought to be turning her stomach, but instead, she thinks of Lyon and tosses herself onto the bed to muffle her giddy laughter in the pillows. She can’t remember ever feeling like this before.

She’s dealt with too many people, and she’s exhausted, but she’s so happy.

–

She wakes up to a scream and her heart leaps into her throat. She throws herself out of bed, snatches up her dressing gown. She’s heading for the door when Jasper hurries in.

There’s been a murder. Naturally. She should have expected as much, from the trajectory of her life so far.

At least this time, she has a better alibi.


	5. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Summit. Written for Day 7, Winter/Spring.

Winters in Jiyel are colder than she’s accustomed to. Snow is unusual in Revaire; she didn’t see it at all until she was eleven, and it has made only two reappearances in the years since, even though Namaire is near mountains and tends to get both more precipitation and harsher winters than her childhood home. In Revaire, when snow falls, it is briefly beautiful (albeit mildly inconvenient) and melts away in a day or two.

In Jiyel, it snows throughout the winter, and the romance of the susurrus fall and the white shrouds it lays over the landscape quickly wears off. Instead of being a brief burst of delightful white, there and gone again, it stays long enough to be churned into grayish slush anywhere there’s regular traffic, and when it does melt a bit, it seems to invariably freeze again into dirty, jagged ice. It remains aesthetically pleasing in the countryside, where it’s relatively undisturbed, but the aesthetics are not the primary problem.

The problem is that it typically remains below freezing for months, and wet, and the sky is grey - Valeriya feels as if she will run mad if there isn’t a bit of sunshine soon - but at least the damp is easily avoided, and she has a new husband who is generally willing to indulge her by serving as the world’s largest and cleverest hot water bottle.

There’s no fire in the library, of course, but the house is tolerably well-heated in general, and this is where Lyon is. Valeriya has decided to spend the day testing how long they can spend in each other’s company before one of them needs a break. It seems a reasonable thing to ascertain, since they’re neither of them truly sociable, for all Valeriya fakes it very well - it’s certainly best to know one another’s needs and limits as soon as possible to enable them to avoid friction. She hasn’t, thus far, needed time alone and away from him and she’s quite certain he’ll tell her if and when he reaches that point himself.

She considers matters, from where she’s comfortably draped against Lyon’s side as he reads. She finished her own book half an hour ago, and she’s bored. And still chilly.

And she can think of a very good remedy for both of those things, in point of fact.

She checks to make sure the book her husband is so intent upon isn’t something important. She wouldn’t interrupt were he looking over the accounts, or anything to do with managing the estate, or immersed in a new acquisition, but a familiar book - of which this is one - means he’s fair game once he comes to a chapter break.

He’s skimming, so he comes to one fairly quickly. When he does so, she sets her chin on his shoulder and noses at his jaw.

“I’m cold,” she says.

He puts an arm around her and the other hand goes to turn the page. She can’t help laughing, and leans in a touch more to kiss him on the cheek. She doesn’t imagine she could possibly have married someone more immune to her wiles who was still actually interested in her, but she would not change him for the world.

The laughter makes him look up and he realises,

“…Oh. That was an… allurement?”

“I clearly need to assign you more romance novels as homework,” she teases, and he glances away with another of those endearing blushes. She’s not serious, and he knows it; romance novels have nothing productive to suggest for actual romantic relationships, and primarily seem to imply that a man should make terrible choices, be overly forceful, and speak in verse.

If Lyon ever started randomly declaiming poetry at her, she’d think he was concussed; she can’t imagine him doing either of the other things under any circumstance.

He does know poetry - a fair bit, actually, and some of it is indeed shiveringly romantic - but he’s vastly more comfortable writing things down and leaving her notes and she sees no reason to change that. She snuggles back into his shoulder and taps three times with her index finger against his arm, a quick little nonverbal ‘I love you.’ The arm draped around her squeezes fractionally and he taps back against her far shoulder.

She is warmer, now, with his arm about her, and perfectly content to remain so. She shrugs;

“A suggestion only.”

A rather indecent one, since it’s only midafternoon, but honestly, it is cold and their marriage bed has proven to be very warm indeed. Also, they’re still granted the allowances of the newly married - eventually she’ll have to stop accosting him at random intervals, because there is a limited reserve of tolerance allotted to such behavior even in the case of Summit Matches, but right now they can get away with it, and she has always liked getting away with exactly as much as she is permitted, and then just a touch more.

This is a new expression of that inclination, and it’s much more personally gratifying than talking people around to something that benefits everyone. That’s useful, of course, but flirting with her husband is fun.

There’s a moment of stillness, and then Lyon closes his book and rises - she gladly takes the hand he offers to draw her up in turn. Kissing won’t get them to their bedroom any faster but it’s snowing again and there’s nothing pressing to do today, and being held is nice. And warm.

Unfortunately, since they’re still in a public part of the house, the staff are apparently somewhat less vigilant in defense of their privacy - the only possible explanation, surely, for why a stranger barges right in squawking,

“Duke Lyon–!”

He stops on the threshold.

She sighs, but Lyon doesn’t yank away, just scowls, and she thinks she loves him all the more for not being embarrassed. Of her, of them, of… well, much of anything that isn’t her teasing him, come to think of it. She’s never seen him blush for anything else.

Her husband doesn’t complain. He never has. But she heard Falon haranguing him just days into the Summit, heard some of what the rest of the delegation said, too. They’re probably hoping to catch him off-guard or unbalanced, hoping having a new wife will assist with those things.

She could probably use that. She could play at being something she is not to get under their guard - she suspects nothing will ever be more dangerous than playing that game against Princess Gisette, and she managed that well enough - but she does not need to. They can’t compel her husband, and they shall quickly learn that she will not be a weakness that renders him more manageable

She hadn’t expected to need to send anyone packing, today; one of the Ministers sent a toady to annoy her husband yesterday, and she was firm but impeccably polite in sending him away again. She is less inclined to be polite if they’re going to badger relentlessly, however, and especially if they’re going to interrupt her own plans.

Which may still be on the table, so she’ll keep this mercifully short.

She smiles at the interloper, her very best Revairan Court smile full of half-drawn knives and a willingness to use them, takes in the sash of rank and the cut and quality of his clothing, and says,

“Under-minister. I fear we weren’t expecting you. If you’d called ahead, we might have been able to receive you in the parlor, instead, and had some small refreshment laid by.”

It’s not a short journey to the estate from any of the governmental buildings; he must be thirsty, likely hungry. But she’s going to be an atrocious hostess and keep him standing in the library because he came here to bother her husband in his own home - the second to do so in as many days - and she intends to put an end to that.

Lyon will have been merely telling them no, and to go away; she is going to make their lives an absolute misery if they do not leave him alone, which she expects will be a marvelous deterrent. She knows a good deal about inflicting misery. Six siblings were an education all on their own, and her first husband, too, taught a great deal by example. She tries to be more elegant about it, but finds she has little patience, at present, for interruptions.

The under-minister (agriculture, she thinks, based on the tassels, but she’s still learning the code there) averts his gaze very quickly, although whether that’s because she’s just pointed out his own incredible rudeness, or because she looks like she’s considering flaying him, or because she and her husband are still standing scandalously close, she’s not sure.

Lyon - breathes out a quiet laugh.

“Valeriya,” he murmurs, “it’s alright.”

She blinks up at Lyon, studies his expression, looks between them, and -

“Oh,” she realizes, “it’s not like yesterday. He’s a regular guest, and they did actually let him through.”

Which means he’s not an interloper at all, but one of Lyon’s friends. She does pull out of the embrace, now, to a socially acceptable distance, and dips into a deep curtsy.

Well. This is mortifying.

“I do beg your pardon, sir.”

He’s smiling at her, though, when she looks up.

“Protective. Wouldn’t have expected that, but I like you better for it. I take it you’ve noticed they send people to harass him, and the harriers frequently just barge right on in.”

“It has been challenging to ignore,” she says, dryly, “so I have been moved to escalation, as you see.”

He grins at Lyon.

“I wasn’t expecting you to wed a tigress!”

Lyon just frowns at him, but it’s not the offended scowl he aims at people who are genuinely bothering him - is, in fact, one Valeriya has seen aimed at herself - so she touches his arm and asks,

“Tea?”

She can withdraw and see to it that something is put together, if they wish time alone to speak or catch up. The servants will doubtless be doing it already, but taking charge of their efforts is a reasonable excuse for her to remove herself to another part of the house.

Lyon rests his hand over hers and holds it.

“Stay,” he says. “Let me introduce you.”

–

She shocks herself by liking the man, but perhaps it’s not actually surprising; Lyon is a very good judge of character, with the glaring exception of his wife.

When their guest leaves, shortly before dinner, she taps her chin and realizes,

“You need to invite your friends to sup with us soon. Let’s say… Moonday. That will give me four days to arrange an entertainment of some sort, and a decent spread for the table.”

Lyon tilts his head. She does her best to smile.

“He was scouting, you know. He mentioned several people asking after you, and you haven’t gone out since we got here, and I have… a reputation. Of course your friends are concerned; we should allay their fears.”

Lyon didn’t expect his friend to come barging in, and was glaring when he did, so that’s not actually the usual way of things. Which meant he wanted a look at how they interact when they’re unobserved, and then surprised.

Which he got, but did, at least, seem to find reassuring… in spite of her own beastly behavior.

She sighs.

Lyon tilts her chin up and kisses her forehead.

“They’ll like you,” he says, so confident she almost believes it. He studies her, sees the doubt, and gives her a tiny smile.

“They have, for years, assured me they wish for my happiness.”

She manages a true smile, at that.

“And I make you happy?”

“Yes.”

She steps in to hug him, too tightly. He rests his chin on top of her head.

“You make me happy, too,” she whispers into his chest, like a secret. It still feels like one - like if she says it too loudly, it will be taken away - but less so every day.

-

(And eventually:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title was shamelessly cribbed from an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem, "Love is Not All (Sonnet XXX)," which reads,
> 
> Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink  
> Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;   
> Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink   
> And rise and sink and rise and sink again;   
> Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,   
> Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;   
> Yet many a man is making friends with death   
> Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.   
> It well may be that in a difficult hour,   
> Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,   
> Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,   
> I might be driven to sell your love for peace,   
> Or trade the memory of this night for food.   
> It well may be. I do not think I would.


End file.
